


I just wish

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Freeform, M/M, Punk, Swearing, Teen Angst, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the fuck does she want? What the fuck can she have?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I just wish

It's cold as balls, her car is wrecked, her hair looks like shit, her make-up is smudged from crying, Cosette probably hates her, and Grantaire just threw up on her shoes.

Well, not like he hasn't thrown up on her shoes before. But she doesn't really have that many shoes, and usually she gets clothes from Cosette, even though she is like size zero in everything and Éponine is a size in which the worlds fucks you over for clothes that fit you. At least she can cram her feet into Cosette's sneakers, although she liked the idea of wearing Cosette's clothes because that's one of the cute things cute couples do, right? She could barely fit into one of her hoodies, though. Goddamn, that girl is like a porcelain doll.

“You're rambling,” Grantaire mumbles at her feet. Shit. She hadn't even realized she was speaking. Whatever. Not like it matters if anyone hears her crying to a drunk guy who is also crying, except the police or snotty rich kids who would call the cops.

“God,” she says. “Fucking Christ.”

Grantaire quotes some obnoxiously artistic, pretentious thing he probably stole out of one of Jehan's fucking poetry books. In fact, it's probably something Jehan wrote himself. Éponine barely hears what he says, too busy glaring at the road.

Fuck you, road, it's your fault. Thanks for ruining my night, and the rest of my life too. Fuck you. Fuck rich people, fuck boys, fuck heterosexuals, fuck cis people. Fuck poets too, that seems like something she should add.

Éponine digs around in her pockets for a cigarette but instead finds some napkins from McDonald's. When did she even stop at McDonald's? Oh, yeah, to pick up Grantaire before the party.

She takes Grantaire's head – he's not sober enough to understand why his head is moving, so he flails a little bit – and lays it on her lap. She wipes the drool and the vomit from around his mouth, and he whines about karma and cosmic backlash as she does so.

“Shut up, asshole,” she spits out. She's at that dangerous point where she's bitter at everything and close to crying again. Grantaire would be better off jumping into a pen of wolves than spending any more time drooped on her shoes, but the piece of shit is too drunk and too emotional to care about being yelled at. Fuck, they've both been yelled at tonight. She feels guilty just for thinking about yelling at Grantaire. He's like a kitten. No, wait, more like a dog. A sad dog.

Grantaire just hiccups and snuggles her jacket. It's denim and it's Montparnasse's. She feels disgusting just looking at it, but she can't take it off and burn it yet because it is freezing outside. Fucking shitbag Montparnasse, buying everyone crap with money probably looted off of a corpse to make himself look good, got her into this mess, no, crap, she has to stop thinking about all that or she's going to break down and smash her head against the road.

“Where's Combeferre?” Grantaire groans. Combeferre is usually the one there to wipe off his drool and shit when he's plastered. Combeferre is like, everyone's mother or something. He once tried to hug her when they met and she growled at him.

Éponine flinches. He's with Enjolras, and that's the last person Grantaire probably wants to hear about right now.

“Uh,” she lies, “he's on his way to pick us up.” There's no one going to pick them up.

Grantaire seems content with that. Éponine pulls her jacket around her and picks at all the badges and buttons she's sewed on. They're all from Enjolras, who has like a whole fucking collection of political patches and everyone who knows him has some. Bahorel makes everyone sew them on so they can look like a gang. She vaguely remembers a picture hanging up on her wall, of everyone standing in a line with their studded jackets and punk haircuts. The good days.

But Montparnasse was with them then, back when Enjolras thought he was oh so progressive or something letting the guy hang out with them. What was he thinking? He was probably imagining the brownie points building up in his head, like, “Look at me, look how intersectional I am, look at this poor fat girl next to this rich guy who is totally not a criminal because I'm so oblivious I can't even see that Grantaire has a massive boner for me, I am saving the world right here.”

Then Montparnasse thought it would be funny as hell to pretend he was dating Éponine (it must have been so funny for him, convincing everyone that he would fuck a girl like Éponine) knowing full fucking well she was with Cosette, turned all of her fucking friends against her except Grantaire, and now Grantaire is as alone and hated as she is, and the rest is history. Or, really, the present.

Montparnasse was like the Devil in prada. She was pretty sure that was a movie title, but it sure fit Montparn-ass. She felt really clever for coming up with that one; she would have to remember it when she was passing by his house so she could yell it at him and maybe spray paint it on his house.

Her head is spinning like a kid on their first roller coaster. What a grand idea, to go crash Marius's birthday party. Thinking back on it, the only reason Grantaire went with her terrible plan was probably just so he could see Enjolras, and also because he had nothing else to do but mope around. Grantaire's the worst enabler for bad ideas.

Both of them were bitter and weren't thinking, well, mostly she was, and arrived drunk as hell with booze Marius's grandpa would have a fit over, and Cosette didn't even – Jesus Christ, this was the worst part – she didn't even _look_ at Éponine, and Enjolras started screaming at Grantaire about ruining everything, who just straight up told him “I love you” out of nowhere and then Grantaire started freaking out and he was the first to cry, of course.

Oh, but that look on Enjolras's face was worth it. Matter of fact, every expression Enjolras wore tonight was as gold as his hair.

Enjolras screamed at her a little bit about letting Cosette dates who she wants, and she was like, “I know she can fucking date who she likes, shut up,” and someone in the crowd said “You sure dated who you liked” and it was complete fucking chaos. Rich kids, friends of Marius, who had never been in a fight saw a change to look cool in front of their boring private school friends.

At some point she got punched, Grantaire rushed to defend her and got kicked in the gut, her hair almost got pulled off her head, and the last thing she saw before she was kicked out the door was Enjolras fuming and stomping like an angry socialist little kid and Cosette crying her eyes out. God, that image will stick with her.

Marius was sobbing because he's a wimp and Éponine directs more than a little of her bitterness at him, so before she hit the curb she said something like “burn in Hell, Marius” and no one talks badly about the group's one precious little treasured heterosexual. So, she is condemned in all of her friends' eyes.

They booked it out of the neighborhood before Bahorel came out after them for hurting Marius's poor little feelings. Where the hell are they now? Somewhere on the sidewalk and without a plan or a will to fucking live.

She coughs, disrupting Grantaire's muttering. He rolls off her lap and hits the cement. He picks himself up and starts wandering away, and Éponine's like, what the fuck is this douchebag doing now?

He stumbles a bit and starts heading in the direction of Enjolras's house, like it's the only direction he knows to follow. One sad goddamn dog.

She gets up to grab him before he gets hit by a car or something, and, she must be some kind of prophet, because as soon as she gets up there's a car barreling down the road. It screeches to a halt at the sight of him but not soon enough – she feels sick as she watches Grantaire roll, in slow motion, off the hood of some expensive looking car before flopping to the road.

Éponine runs towards him, screaming, screaming, screaming, “Grantaire! Grantaire! You fucking ran him over! I'll kill you!” But someone jumps out of the car, and then there's Enjolras of all people standing in the middle of the street. He picks up Grantaire, and she hopes to God he doesn't throw up on Enjolras. 

She must really be drunk, and she must be hallucinating now, because Enjolras and Grantaire start making out as soon as Grantaire is in his arms. She can see blood trickling down Grantaire's face but Enjolras is sucking his face like he wants to eat him. It's kinda gross. She prays to God, for Grantaire's sake, that he doesn't taste like barf.

“You're not going to kill me, right?” someone says behind her. She blearily turns to look at who is speaking to her, expecting Jehan, because this romance shit is right up his alley, he's been waiting for Enjolras and Grantaire to get together forever. He'd be upset to miss out on their first kiss.

But, holy shit, Cosette is standing right next to her. “Cosette,” she breathes out. 

“Hi, Éponine,” Cosette says nervously. She looks like an angel out in this dark street. 

“I'm so, so sorry, Cosette,” Éponine says. She shivers in Montparnasse's denim jacket. “Look, I don't really want Marius to burn in Hell. He's kinda cool, I guess. I hope you guys are happy together and stuff.”

Cosette laughs daintily. Everything she does is dainty, but punk. Like soft punk or something, which would probably mean Éponine is some kind of crust punk. Jehan and Cosette have the same aesthetic going on. They wear practically the same clothes.

Speaking of clothes, Éponine looks down on herself with horror. Her shirt is torn, there are stains all over her pants, and her shoes are covered in Grantaire's vomit.

“Look,” she begins, but she has no idea what to say to this angel.

“Let's just get in the car.” Cosette says. She gestures to the car and grimaces, because Enjolras has Grantaire pinned against the hood he just rolled off and they're still making out.

Disgusting. She must have said it out loud, because Cosette laughs again. Éponine loves getting her to laugh.

“Corrupted homosexual youth degrading the public streets,” Cosette says in a serious voice, shaking her curls like a Republican girl at church, which is the exact opposite of everything Cosette is, that beautiful soft punk girl she is in love with, and this time Éponine laughs.

Cosette goes over and physically pries Enjolras off of Grantaire, pushing them into the car, and she hops into the front seat, patting the seat next to her. Shit, does she mean for her to sit next to her? Hopefully she won't wake up on McDonald's and find out this was all some kind of ridiculous dream. Éponine jumps in after her.

“I'm sorry for acting so cold the past few weeks. I know you wouldn't have done what you did tonight if I hadn't provoked you to do it,” Cosette says as she starts up the car. She sounds so terribly sad and Éponine feels so terribly guilty, and she is also coming down from the whoozy stages of drunkenness and downward to the unhappy, throbbing stages of it.

“Don't apologize, Cosette, shit. You didn't provoke me or anything. I shouldn't have wrecked your boyfriend's birthday party,” Éponine says.

“Yeah, you shouldn't have.”

“But, Cosette, I swear to God, I did not sleep with Montparnasse. You know I have better standards than that. I just wish...”

They had this conversation weeks ago. Éponine knows that, now, even if she explains everything and gets back on good terms with all of her friends, she'll never kiss Cosette ever again, and she'll definitely never be able to wear her cute clothes now.

She just wants. She just. Well. She, uh.

“It's okay,” Cosette says, “It's okay, let's just wait until we get back to my house to talk about this. I know you didn't cheat on me.”

Hearing Cosette say that makes her feel like crying, she feels so relieved, but hearing the sloppy sounds of the assholes kissing in the back seat makes her feel like crying for different reasons.

“Quiet down, boys, we're heading home. Please don't have sex on my sofa,” Cosette tells them.

Grantaire makes some kind of grunt to let her know that he heard her, Éponine thinks, because she sure as hell doesn't want to think about him grunting for any other reasons.

“Also, please don't have sex in my car. This is my dad's car, you know,” Cosette says. She looks at Éponine, one of her eyebrows lifted, so Éponine reaches in the backseat and slaps Grantaire. He looks unhappy to disentangle himself from Enjolras, but there's a goofy, terribly wonderful grin on his face that makes Éponine both proud and sad.

What a wild night. She's going to have a wicked hangover in the morning.


End file.
